But we will echo the words of Temperance—“Pore Lanty—pore, pore M’bella!”
CHAPTER XII.
The Ann Serrup of whom the sewing circle had whispered, was one of those melancholy scapegoats found, alas! in nearly every rural community, and lost in cities among myriads of her kind. She had lived in the Brixton parish all her life, but had lately come with her shame to a little house within the precincts of Dole. Left at thirteen the only sister among four drunken brothers much older than herself, the only gospel preached at—not to—her had been the terrorism of consequences. Like all false gospels this one had proved a broken reed—and not only broken but empoisoned. The unfathered child of this poor girl had been born about a year prior to her appearance in Dole.
Mabella’s heart went out to the forlorn creature, and a few days after the memorable meeting at Mrs. Winder’s she set forth to visit her, leaving Dorothy in charge of Temperance. It was a calm, sweet season. The shadow of white clouds lay upon the earth, and as Mabella walked along the country roads the chrism of the gentle day seemed to be laid upon her aching heart. For a space, in consideration of the needs of the poor creature to whom she was going, Mabella forgot the shadows which dogged her own steps.
She was going on a little absent-mindedly, when at a sudden turn in the road she came upon Vashti, who had paused and was standing looking, great-eyed, across the fields to where the sun smote the windows of Lanty’s house.
“Well, Mabella,” she said, taking the initiative in the conversation as became the “preacher’s wife.” “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to see Ann Serrup,” said Mabella. “I’ve wished to do so for some time—how plainly you can see our house from here.”
“Yes—how’s Lanty?”
“He’s very well—haven’t you seen him lately?—he looks splendid.”